


Care

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom John, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Kid Fic, M/M, Romance, Smut, Top Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty does not return and Sherlock is forced to face the consequences of shooting Magnusson.  Weeks after Sherlock is sent to Eastern Europe, Mary dies in childbirth, leaving John alone and literally friendless with a newborn baby to take care of. He's overwhelmed and in desperate need of someone to take care of <i>him,</i> and finds an unexpected ally in Mycroft, who may come to mean more to his little family than he could have ever imagined.</p><p>AU set post season 3 and ignores the Christmas special.  The major character death refers to Mary only- no other beloved Sherlock characters died in the making of this fic.</p><p>**This story is on permanent hiatus.... which is a nice way of saying that I have no intentions of finishing this.  I will probably remove this from the archive unless someone would be interested in taking these two chapters and finishing the story.  Let me know!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I've never cared for a baby before, so all of the baby's developments are culled from online resources. There will probably be inaccuracies. If you spot any feel free to let me know, because I would like this to be something people with actual baby experience can read without sneering at my ignorance, ha ha. 
> 
> This starts out kind of dark, but I don't intend for this to be a dark fic.

Mary didn't even live long enough to name their child.

“We'll know when we see her,” she'd gushed on their way home from the airstrip where John and Sherlock had said their goodbyes. John hadn't known whether she was trying to distract him from his grief or if she honestly hadn't cared that Sherlock was leaving the country, possibly to his death. He'd considered the possibility she might have even been relieved and he'd had to fight to control his distaste at the thought. He'd had to remind himself that when he'd decided to return to Mary, he'd intended to commit himself to her completely. If he hadn't quite found it in himself to forgive her yet, well, forgiveness could come in time.

 

Forgiveness, it turned out, had come too late for Mary. But rather than regret he felt only more anger still at her abandonment. He'd never even wanted a child! They'd both agreed that they were too old to start a family, and yet somehow they'd wound up pregnant anyway. Had Mary insisted on ending the pregnancy John wasn't even sure he'd have fought very hard against it. But the baby had become the thing that held them together, a pull stronger than John's waning affections for Mary. The irony that Sherlock had given up his liberty and perhaps life for the freedom of a woman who would not live out the month was not lost on him. He felt cold, sick and desperately alone.

The baby was screaming in his arms, responding to his lack of interest, probably. He'd just spent the past hour holding Mary's cooling hand and maybe the baby could sense it, the death on him.

Amelia, the nurse in charge of his baby, was hovering nearby, arms out as though she were afraid that John was not qualified to hold his own daughter properly. Her area of the nursery was spotless, well run and sterile. Babies lay like pink and blue pills in a weekly medicine planner. John probably ruined the aesthetic. 

“I do know what I'm doing, you know,” he assured her in a drained voice. “I'm a family doctor. I've even delivered a baby before.” 

It rubbed a bit that he'd safely delivered the child of a woman in Afghanistan in a hut with no running water, no sanitation and little medical equipment, yet his wife could not safely deliver a child in one of the most advanced hospitals in the world.

“Oh, well, it's different when it's your own,” Amelia tittered nervously, clearly uncomfortable around John but doing her best to remain professional. It took a firm personality to deal with the grief of strangers in the medical field and Amelia was clearly struggling. “Would you like me to hold her while you call your family?”

John was offering up the baby before he realized that he _had no one to call._ He had no idea where Sherlock was and no way of contacting him. His parents were dead, he hadn't spoken to Harry in years, and if Mary had any family left living that information had gone to the grave with her. Further, Mary had isolated herself from her friends after the wedding and John could not imagine calling on any of his casual pub pals for anything other than a pint and a game. Mrs Hudson would have come at once, of course, but she was visiting her sister in Kent and it wouldn't be fair to rouse the woman in the middle of the night. Molly would drop everything and come as well, but he simply didn't need her hand wringing and sympathetic twittering. 

John was flipping through his contacts, picking names off for various reasons, when he came to Mycroft Holmes' name. His thumb hovered above his icon.

Years ago, when it became clear the John had infinitely more influence on Sherlock than Mycroft did, Mycroft had given him his personal mobile number with instructions to use it in emergencies. Thereafter they'd had several discussions pertaining to Sherlock- his danger nights, his close calls, his drug incidents. After Sherlock's fake death, Mycroft had told him with apparent sincerity that he could continue to use the number, should John ever need his assistance. Of course John never had, but a part of him had never quite been able to delete the number. 

For a long time after Sherlock's jump John had hated Mycroft, blaming him in some measure for the events that culminated in the suicide. And even when Sherlock had returned to London and explained Mycroft's true role in the affair, John had never quite forgiven him for being an accessory to the secret in much the same way he could not let go of his resentment against Molly. He'd called Mycroft only once, to tell him about Sherlock's drug relapse, and hadn't spoken above a half dozen sentences to him that didn't directly relate to Sherlock thereafter. In fact, he couldn't ever recall having a genuine conversation with the man that hadn't been in some way related to Sherlock.

But who else did he have? He was as alone as he'd ever been, only this time around he had a tiny life who depended on him for her every need in the world, and he was _crushed_ by the weight of the responsibility. 

John tapped Mycroft's name and brought the mobile up to his ear. Within a few ring tones Mycroft's lovely, sophisticated voice filled his ear. “Mary or the baby?” he asked, cutting straight through the extraneous civilities.

John made a harsh sound. “You mean you don't know already? You always seem to know everything.”

There was silence for a moment before the brisk, too knowing voice continued. “If the baby had died or was in need of assistance, you would not be calling me. Mary, the more cool headed and less emotionally expressive partner in your marriage, would have this situation under control. Mary was an older mother, thus increasing the likelihood of complications during childbirth. If she was simply ill, again, you would not be calling me. What could I do that doctors could not? You're a proud man and would not be calling me if you had any other options. Therefore the likely scenario is that Mary is deceased. My true question, then, should be is the baby dead as well?”

“No!” John barked, his eyes flying up to the bundle Amelia jiggled around the nursery, feeling the first protective urges rising up inside him. Comfort came on the heels of that. The cold analysis should have been offensive, but it was familiar enough to offer a shred of something he associated with happier times.

“She's remarkably healthy, considering.... It's Mary. A fatal heart attack during delivery. The doctors think it was because of excessive blood loss but might have possibly been an undiagnosed heart condition. We won't know until there's an autopsy.”

Mycroft's response to the news that the baby was alive was a sharp, brief exhalation of breath before he seemed to gather himself. “I'll be there in an hour,” he said firmly and John literally slumped in his chair in relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

*

It took less than an hour and then Mycroft was there, Anthea in tow. Both were dressed sharply in business suits despite the lateness of the hour and John had to wonder what sort of nationally important business he'd interrupted with his call.

Before he could feel guilty about it, however, Mycroft took one good look at his exhausted visage and took complete control of the situation. A few quick words to Anthea and then Mycroft was guiding John over to the baby to bid her goodnight and then drawing John out of the nursery. John never knew what strings Mycroft had had to pull, but he managed to find him an empty room with a cot and a bathroom. 

“Just rest and let me take care of everything,” Mycroft had said, surprisingly gentle considering how often John had seen the man be biting and sarcastic around Sherlock. He was obviously in complete control of the situation be he was not harsh or impatient as he helped John down onto the cot, even pulling off his shoes and unfolding a thin cotton blanket from a castoff chair in the corner of the room.

John knew he'd likely be ashamed of his helplessness later, but now it felt so good to just sleep and forget and let someone else borrow his cares, just for a little while. “The baby,” he said, his last conscious protest. “She'll need me to-”

“There is nothing for you to do now,” Mycroft had assured him at the doorway. “She is being taken care of by the wards' most experienced nurses, I've made sure of it. Just sleep for now and leave it to me.”

It was much too tempting to protest. John nodded and laid his head down and was asleep in moments.

*

When next John awoke the sun was peeking its orange rays through the tiny windows of the room and Mycroft was sitting in the room's only chair and speaking solemnly to the child in his arms while he fed her a bottle. It was true that John had never seen anyone feed a baby with such dignified hauteur, but it was still so charming and bizarre that John had to blink his eyes a few times and stare hard to make certain it wasn't a dream.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and tilted one edge of his wide mouth in acknowledgment, but did not speak.

“What are you doing?” John finally asked when Mycroft lifted the bottle from the baby's sucking lips and threw a cloth over his shoulder.

“If you don't know what I'm doing then we have bigger problems than even I realized,” Mycroft said dryly, but not bitingly. John watched with interest as Mycroft expertly lifted the child onto his chest and shoulder, one hand supporting her little bottom while the other big hand gently patted her back. He did nothing so undignified as coo at the little girl, but there was a certain softness about his face and the slightest curve of his lips that John couldn't look away from.

“You don't have children, do you?” he asked suspiciously when, after burping the little girl to his apparent satisfaction, Mycroft confidently cradled the baby back in the crook of his arm and picked up the bottle again.

Mycroft's expression of horror was eloquent. “Please never suggest such a thing again, John, particularly in my mother's hearing. It is the great tragedy of her life that she has no expectation of grandchildren, or so she tells me,” he said with an eye roll to the heavens. “I was seven years old when Sherlock was born. He was a difficult baby but seemed particularly soothed by my ministrations, and so childcare often fell to me.”

Sherlock, in the rare moments when he discussed his childhood, had said much the same. John had gathered that once their relationship had been much closer and more amicable. He wondered what had gone so wrong between them, and then thought bitterly of the ruined relationship between he and his own sibling. It seemed family bonds weren't as unbreakable as they were made out to be.

John lay on the cot for a while longer, silently watching Mycroft feed his child. He reflected morosely that at this point in his daughter's short life she'd been held longer by Mycroft Holmes than her own father. He couldn't muster up much emotion, though, and found he felt indifferent. He did not love this child. He did not _know_ this child. What did it matter if Mycroft bonded with her more than John was emotionally ready to do?

John watched as the baby's sucking lips slowed and her eyes drifted closed, made one last attempt at awareness, and then closed for good. Mycroft put the bottle aside, wrapped the little girl snugly in her blanket again, and settled her comfortably against his chest. That was what a real father looked like, didn't it? And what did it say about John that the strongest emotion he felt was hopelessness when he looked at her?

“Mycroft,” he said gruffly, not meeting his eyes. “If I decided that I couldn't give her the life she deserves- and Christ, isn't that an understatement? Could you- Would you-” It was an idea that had a hard time coming out.

Mycroft's sharp gaze flicked from the child's face back up to John's. “Could I see that she was placed in a family fit to give her the best opportunity at a healthy and happy life? If that is truly your wish, I can do that. But I would advise you to wait and not make any hasty decisions. Your loss is fresh and you've not yet had time to accustom yourself to the idea of single parenthood. She may yet come to mean more to you than you can presently imagine and it would be a pity for you to make a rash decision you may come to regret.” 

John nodded, grateful for Mycroft's wisdom. And it meant something to Mycroft. Although he'd taken pains to remain objective, John could hear clearly in his voice that, whatever his reasons, Mycroft wanted John to keep the baby. 

John puffed out a breath through his lips and looked out the window at the setting sun. “I slept all day, didn't I? And there's so much to do...”

Mycroft stood and, moving slowly to not wake her up, gently handed the baby down into John's arms, even though John had not asked for her. The baby pursed her lips once before relaxing back into sleep.

Mycroft stood back and ran a hand over his impeccable suit. “Everything is taken care of, John. I have arranged for your paternity leave- three months at ninety percent pay. I have planned Mary's memorial and I have informed your circle of acquaintances and have directed that in lieu of flowers, donations should be made to the Doctors Without Borders foundation. I have filed all pertinent paperwork. The baby is due to be released tomorrow morning and you have clearance to remain here until then. I will have a car sent to collect you.”

John's mouth had fallen open somewhere during the speech and he only with difficulty shut it. He was torn between indignation at Mycroft's taking control of everything without his permission and relief that so many difficult decisions had been taken out of his hands.

Seeing his conflict, Mycroft's brows creased in confusion on his forehead. “You asked for my help,” he voice sounding uncertain. Mycroft _never_ sounded like he knew less than everything.

John took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, and then let the air out slowly. “Mycroft...” he began, readying himself to lash out at the man. But then he stopped himself, because Mycroft had made the decisions that John would have if he'd been in the right frame of mind to do so and he'd smoothed the way through a heartbreaking situation and he was caring about John when presently no one else was around to do so. “Thank you,” he said instead. “I don't know what I'd have done without your help.”

Mycroft's tense eyebrows smoothed out and his mouth turned up into the least condescending smile he'd ever seen on the man's face. “It was my pleasure, John. You need only ever ask for my help.”

It was said with such sincerity that John couldn't help but take it as the truth and feel pitifully grateful. He wanted to express it, but he wasn't ready to show that much vulnerability to Mycroft Holmes, of all people. Their gazes flitted off of each other and Mycroft unnecessarily smoothed his hands down his suit again. 

“Until tomorrow then, John,” Mycroft said, and left John with his daughter.

*

The hospital was remarkably timely about releasing John and the baby and John had to wonder if Mycroft's hand could be seen in that as well. Whatever the cause, John, loaded down with diapers, blankets and every other necessity plus one whimpering baby, exited the hospital perhaps a little sooner than he'd been ready for. Despite the horrors of the past sixty two hours, the hospital seemed safe. Here, when the baby's crying became overwhelming, there were nurses he could pass her off to. Out in the real world there were no safety nets.

“John!” called a voice and John swiveled around, surprised to find Mycroft leaning out of a limousine and waving a hand gracefully for his attention. He'd assumed Anthea would pick him up and he wouldn't see Mycroft again now that his obligations had been fulfilled, but perhaps there had been a lull in the free world's machinations for a day. Feeling much less alone, John hurried over, handing the bag of diapers off to Mycroft when he drew near. 

“You have a car seat?” he asked unnecessarily as his gaze landed upon a car seat that looked like it could have come from a space shuttle.

“Car seats have come a long way in the past forty years but I dare say between two adults we can figure it out,” Mycroft said with a grave face, and John was almost charmed. 

“You say that now...” John said as they worked together to figure out the straps while the baby squalled and weakly moved her limbs in what seemed ways deliberately intended to obstruct their progress. When she was safely strapped in they climbed into the vehicle, John taking the seat beside his daughter and Mycroft taking the opposite rear facing seat. Behind him a small shaded window obstructed the view to the front of the vehicle. The driver must have been able to see them, however, for as soon as they'd finished buckling in the car slid away from the curb.

Mycroft favored the sort of limousine that was too sophisticated to be ostentatious and large. When they sat facing each other they were close enough that their feet could have tangled together if they hadn't been careful and their eyes kept catching. Flustered, John turned his attention to his fussing daughter. The motion of the vehicle was soothing her and her eyes were growing heavy again.

“How long do I have to decide on her name?”

“A year, officially. I would suggest deciding sooner, of course, but the decision is yours. I presume you ask because you do not have a name in mind?”

John looked up from the child. “Mary thought it was important we wait to decide until she was born. Seemed to think we'd just know when he met her, but... I don't know. I have no idea. What does she look like to you?” 

Mycroft seemed to be giving it serious consideration, his forehead creased in thought. John wondered if the Holmes penchant for peculiar names had been handed down to the eldest son.

“She looks like a Louisa to me.” There was a weighty air to the pronouncement, as though Mycroft had taken the question with as much thoughtfulness as if asked his views on immigration laws and their long term consequences to social order in the UK. 

“Louisa,” John considered, testing it out, tasting in on his tongue. It was simple yet elegant and sounded good with her last name. He didn't hate it and he didn't have any better ideas. And if Mycroft thought she looked like a Louisa, who was he to argue? Mycroft seemed to know everything else.

It was then that John realized they were not going to his flat. John had no reason to believe Mycroft wished him or his daughter any ill will, but he'd been betrayed by the people he loved and trusted most in the world too many times. “Where are we going?” he asked warily, one arm instinctively going up to lay across Louisa's car seat.

“I'm taking you to my home, John,” he said quickly, a hand reaching out as though to reassure John before Mycroft seemed to think better of the contact. “I thought you might not be ready to face the home you shared with Mary. The only other alternative was taking you to 221B where Mrs Hudson could support you, but the sanitation crew evaluated the building and decided it needed to be fumigated... we didn't have time for that.”

John stared at Mycroft, feeling almost light headed with disbelief. First Mycroft cared for Louisa like he'd been awaiting the opportunity for years, and now he was opening up his home to John and his newborn daughter? They barely even knew each other! Their connection had only ever been through Sherlock, and with Sherlock out of contact there seemed nothing left to keep them from being mere acquaintances.

But John needed this, and Mycroft wanted to help him- it was evident in the slight softness of his mouth and the steadiness of his gaze. John bit his lip and looked down at Louisa's red, unhappy face, and only had to imagine taking her back to the empty flat, still littered with the detritus of Mary's life, and deal with her alone to make up his mind. 

“Thank you,” John muttered, still looking at Louisa and only watching the way Mycroft's long body relaxed at his response out of the corner of his eye. It would only be for a day or two, anyway, he thought. What could be the harm?


	2. Chapter 2

John had not cried when Mary died. It wasn't because he didn't love her, because deep inside of him he _had_ still loved her, despite the fact that he'd felt that the woman he'd fallen in love with had only been a carefully constructed facade. Mary had been there when he'd needed someone, when the depression of losing Sherlock had been crippling and he'd begun to question the point of his life, and he'd never forget that. But his emotions had been too fraught and conflicted to do anything as pure as cry for the loss of his wife.

Three days after bringing Louisa from the hospital and to Mycroft's home John sat with his head in his hands and wept. Louisa's wails from her crib had drowned out his own soft sobs, but he'd spent the past hour walking her through the halls of Mycroft's ridiculously large townhouse with no relief. He'd tried every trick he knew of to calm her, but she was inconsolable. And the worst part, perhaps, was simply knowing that there wasn't much he could do about it. He was a doctor; he knew the signs of a sick infant, and Louisa was perfectly healthy. Sometimes babies just cried.

It was terribly ironic, he knew. He'd lost count of the times he'd told frazzled first time mothers that their baby was not ill and that there was no magic pill to stop a baby crying, only techniques that _might_ calm them. Looking back on it, John felt that he might have had a bit more patience with them, even if he could have given them no other advice. But John didn't think that he could have understood, or that anyone could, until they'd experienced the desperation of a wailing baby who would not be soothed. Sometimes you simply had to let a baby cry, even when the sound was like knives slipping deeper into your gut.

And sometimes you simply had to cry with them. 

The tears had thankfully dried up by the time Mycroft found John, though he had little doubt that Mycroft could read it in his bloodshot eyes and haggard expression. He'd passed by a mirror earlier in the night and barely recognized himself. It was as though he'd bypassed middle age by a couple decades and slipped into an aged body overnight. 

“John,” Mycroft had said softly from the doorway, and John had gasped in surprise and lifted his head from his hands. Mycroft had left the city on one of his mysterious business trips shortly after dropping John off at his home three days earlier. He'd seemed reluctant to do so, but as he'd explained to John it simply hadn't been avoidable. And although Mycroft had left John with around the clock surveillance and had meals delivered twice a day, despite John's half hearted protest, John could still remember his conflicted face as he'd gotten into the limousine and glanced back up at his home, where John watched from a window. 

Mycroft's frown became even more pronounced when he saw John's face. He crossed the room in two strides and, without asking permission, touched a finger to John's chin and tilted his face up to look into his eyes. The baby's wails had settled down to the soft whimpers of a fitful sleep, but John imagined Mycroft could read the hours of chaos on every line of John's face.

_I don't think I can do this,_ John thought wildly for the thousandth time and only held back the words by sheer determination.

“John, have you even slept since I last saw you?” Mycroft asked, his voice frustrated. “You _must_ let me hire a nanny. You cannot do this alone!”

John, his despair turning to anger, jerked his chin away from Mycroft's grasp. 

Mycroft withdrew his hand, his lips thinning with displeasure. “I know you think I'm being presumptuous,” he said heavily, and as quickly as it had arisen John's anger dissipated.

“And I know I'm being a ungrateful arsehole,” John said, forcing his tired mouth up into a small smile. 

“You know that money is no issue to me,” Mycroft said plainly. He gestured around casually, his hand taking in not only the luxurious room that Louisa and John shared but also the opulent townhouse and his posh neighborhood. “I have more than enough. To turn down my help is nothing but letting your pride come before your and Louisa's health.”

John narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. “There is nothing wrong with Louisa,” he said, stung at the insinuation that John was unfit to care for his daughter. “I haven't been neglecting her.”

Mycroft looked down his nose at John, as though John were an imbecile for misinterpreting his words. It reminded John that no matter how solicitous the man had been, he was still Mycroft Holmes and tolerated fools no better than Sherlock had. “Louisa needs you to be at your best, John. At least let me bring in a professional for the nights, so that you can have a few hours of uninterrupted rest. She'll be thoroughly vetted, of course, with the highest security clearance. I believe that the royal family's nanny could be tempted away...”

John's mouth had dropped open in horror before he noticed the very slightest upturn of Mycroft's lips and realized he was being teased. John mustered up the smallest of answering smiles and the muscles in his cheeks felt stiff with disuse. 

“I am _not_ poaching the bloody royal nanny,” John said quietly, for Louisa had finally fallen silent in her crib, perhaps soothed by the sound of their soft voices. “Perhaps, at night... Just for a week or so. I'm not going to wear out my welcome, you know,” John said in as stern a voice as he could with a sleeping infant in the room. 

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “You are welcome as long as you need my assistance,” he murmured, and his apparent sincerity made John feel uncertain. Needing something to do, he stood to go and check on Louisa, but paused when Mycroft's eyes roamed briefly over John's bare chest before sliding away. 

John had been employing skin to skin contact to soothe Louisa, a well respected technique in medical communities, but he'd forgotten that when he'd placed Louisa in her crib he hadn't put his jumper back on. His chest didn't necessarily do him any favors, with the mass of scar tissue on his shoulder and the bit of extra flesh around his middle, but for a moment he'd thought Mycroft's gaze was not entirely impersonal.

Flustered, John walked past Mycroft to look down at Louisa's sleeping form. He'd put her in a warm onesie and adjusted the thermostat so she would need no blankets in the crib to smother her, but it still comforted him to see her little chest rising and falling unimpeded. He knew every step to take to minimize the risk of SIDS, but sometimes he simply had to see for himself. His own insecurity was why he'd received so little sleep in the past few days. Louisa was no fussier than other babies her age, but he'd find himself awaking from a light doze at night with the sudden desperate urge to assure himself she still breathed. The thought of trusting a stranger to take over his watch made his stomach seize with anxiety.

Mycroft walked over to the crib as well, looking down at the sleeping baby. “You need to sleep, John,” Mycroft said again. “I will watch her while you rest, if you like.”

John looked up at him, surprised. It was past two in the morning and Mycroft's usually impeccably pressed suit looked rumpled and the skin under his eyes was puffy and dark. “When was the last time _you_ slept?” John challenged, turning Mycroft's earlier accusation against him. 

Mycroft lifted a shoulder in reply. “I don't need much sleep. And I have work to do. Will the light of a laptop keep you awake?”

The thought of Mycroft in the same room as him while he slept was a startling one, but he found himself tempted.

“You were going to stay up anyway?” he asked, and when Mycroft nodded John glanced longingly over at his bed. He _would_ sleep better with someone watching over Louisa, he knew, and he was so exhausted he was almost catatonic. “You'll wake me when you're ready to go to bed?” 

“Go to sleep,” Mycroft said softly, and it was like a lullaby to John's ears. Had he not been so tired he might have protested the imposition on Mycroft, but all he could feel was pitifully grateful.

“Just an hour or two,” John promised as he settled onto his bed. He was asleep within moments.

John awoke several times in the night, roused by Louisa's cries and Mycroft's soft murmurs. Every time he lifted his head and watched by the faint glow of the laptop as Mycroft cradled the baby against his chest, fed her a bottle or changed her diaper. Part of John knew he should awaken and take care of his daughter, but a greater part of him trusted that Louisa was in safe hands, and he'd fall back asleep to the sounds of Mycroft's soothing voice.

It was after nine in the morning when John came fully awake to find Mycroft sound asleep in the rocking chair by the crib. One of his hands was curled around the bars of the crib and his face was turned towards Louisa, who was awake and staring sleepily around, as though trying to figure out her surroundings. 

It made John feel unexpectedly fond. Mycroft had always seemed so remote to him; almost a caricature of the mysterious figure of power. It was so strange to see a soft, human side to him.

Brushing sleep from his eyes, John walked over and put a hand to Mycroft's shoulder, causing the older man to gasp sharply and sit up straight, his eyes flying immediately over to Louisa who grunted meaninglessly at them. 

“Thank you, Mycroft, for watching Louisa. Now I think you should take your own advice and get some sleep,” John said.

“What time is it?” Mycroft asked in a husky voice and squinted at the watch on his wrist. John wondered if Mycroft wore contacts and was struck again by the strangeness of such a human weakness in a man a week ago he'd thought of as little more than a machine in a bespoke suit.

“Just gone nine in the morning,” John said, and Mycroft looked over at John more closely. 

“John, I believe you've forgotten that Mary's memorial service is in two hours,” he said calmly.

*

Mycroft hadn't even come to Mary's wedding, but he had been solely responsible for planning her memorial. There was something quite telling about that, but John chose to simply be thankful. He was also thankful that Mycroft had chosen a graveside memorial rather than a funeral. It made the thinness of the crowd seem less pitiful and the new sights and experiences were enough of a distraction to keep Louisa quiet for a good ten minutes before the novelty wore off. When she began to fuss Mycroft took the carrier from John and walked the infant among the tombstones, his soft voice carrying back to John only as a comforting sussurration of sound beneath the steady tones of the minister presiding over the memorial. 

When the crowd began to disperse afterwards and Mrs Hudson had pressed a kiss to his cheek and tottered off, apparently happy to leave John to Mycroft's care, John turned and looked back at them. Mycroft had transferred Louisa to his arms and stood back from the crowd. He'd been very protective of the newborn around John and Mary's acquaintances, not allowing anyone too near when people wanted to touch and coo over her. John wasn't sure if Mycroft was afraid of germs or threats, but he knew it was one more thing he owed Mycroft.

When John walked back towards them the two agents who'd discreetly fleshed out Mary's service followed along behind him, distant enough to allow them some measure of privacy but more than near enough to provide a sense of security. Another stood behind Mycroft, looking sleek and deadly and making John wonder, not for the first time, just what Mycroft's job really was. The mere knowledge of his position, however, was well above John's pay grade and he'd learned long ago not to ask questions- or at least not expect answers to them.

Mycroft studied John as he moved closer, and John wondered what he must see in him. There was grief, of course, but even that was passing. John felt as though he'd mourned for Mary months ago, long before her body had failed her. With the benefit of sleep even his isolation and despair was abating. But he remained sad, for the loss of the woman he'd once loved and Louisa's loss too. Whatever Mary had been, John truly believed she'd loved her unborn daughter and would have made a good mother. 

Looking at Mycroft's face felt too personal, so he transferred his gaze to Louisa's instead. She had a pacifier in her mouth and her blue eyes were gazing around with apparent interest. John knew a newborn's eyesight was limited, but the doctor in him was pleased by her alertness. 

“She's a more pleasant baby than Sherlock was,” Mycroft commented and when John looked up in surprise he found Mycroft staring down at the baby's face with a soft expression.

“You _like_ babies,” John said, vague amusement breaking through all the more pressing emotions crowding inside him.

Mycroft's face folded back into a scowl that was not particularly convincing. “Don't be ridiculous, John. I didn't even like children when I was one. Children are only to be tolerated until they grow into sensible adults.”

It was hard to tell with Mycroft, but John didn't _think_ he was serious. And then a corner of Mycroft's lips twitched up, betraying him.

“They are tolerable, I suppose, before they learn to speak,” he allowed, and John grinned for a moment before remembering where they were.

“I don't suppose... Sherlock knows about Mary and Louisa?” John asked, feeling suddenly like his brief bubble of levity had burst and sent him tumbling back to the ground. 

Mycroft didn't look up from Louisa's face. “You know better than to ask questions about Sherlock,” he murmured, as though he were speaking to the baby and not John. Sherlock's entire situation was well above John's security clearance, but it hadn't kept John from wondering daily whether Mycroft had been able to get word to Sherlock, or if he'd even tried.

“Though if Sherlock did know, I believe he would express profound concern for you and your child and would vow to return to you as soon as he could. And he might also hope that Louisa got Mary's nose and not yours.” A small smile spread across Mycroft's face and John let out a long breath.

“If I could speak to him, I would tell him that Louisa is eager to meet her Uncle Sherlock, but that he must stay safe so he can return healthy and ready to babysit. And that he shouldn't worry about me.” He didn't know if it was even possible for Mycroft to convey his message, but saying it aloud felt proactive, as though he could somehow convey his wishes for Sherlock's safety even from this distance. 

It was only a supposition of John's that Sherlock had been sent on some unknown mission and that his return hindered on him completing the mission to the satisfaction of the British government. He watched Mycroft's face carefully, trying to judge his reaction, but Mycroft only made a noncommittal humming noise and did not look up from the child he cradled in his arms.

They'd probably have stood and danced around what they really meant to say until Louisa demanded she be fed or changed, but one of the discreet agents who stood at Mycroft's back strode forward and spoke quietly at Mycroft's elbow.

“Your flight leaves in an hour, sir,” the agent said, and then stepped back to his former position.

“You're leaving?” John asked, and was shocked by the obvious dismay in his voice. He'd come to rely on Mycroft in a very short amount of time- rely on him too much, clearly. “Never mind,” John said hastily, realizing that Mycroft had clearly only returned to London to come to Mary's funeral. He held out his arms for Louisa. “We've inconvenienced you enough.”

“You aren't an inconvenience,” Mycroft said, firmly enough that John looked up at him warily from where he'd ducked down to settle Louisa back into her carrier. “My trip was arranged many months previous and simply cannot be postponed, but I shall return to London within a week. I have arranged to take a partial vacation for the month thereafter and shall work from home, to render any assistance to you required.”

John bristled at the thought of Mycroft having to rearrange his entire life to accommodate one rather unimportant widower and his daughter. Louisa safely tucked away, John stood and squared his shoulders. 

“Mycroft, that's too much,” John said sternly. “I don't require a minder. We will be fine.” Or he hoped they would, anyway. “We need to be getting back to the flat anyway, and-”

Mycroft interrupted John by placing a hand on the handle of the carrier, right next to where John's fingers gripped it. Mycroft's fingertips brushed John's knuckles and it made John suck in a breath at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture. Mycroft had never once touched him in any way that could be considered personal, and John wasn't entirely certain how it made him feel, only that he was most certainly not indifferent.

“John, if I thought you needed a minder I would not be leaving now. I only want to help you.”

“Why?” John asked finally. “Why are you doing any of this? We've never been friends- I never got the impression you even liked me. I didn't expect any of this when I called...” John shook his head, unsure what he'd expected from Mycroft when he'd called him, only that he hadn't had anyone else he could rely on.

“I'm 'doing this' because you asked for help,” Mycroft said, his voice steady. “And I would not be doing it if I did not want to.”

It answered precisely none of the questions that John had meant, but he was soothed anyway. He didn't think Mycroft was lying, and it made sense. Mycroft owed him nothing and so it could not be out of some misguided sense of obligation. The only reasonable explanation was that he assisted John simply because he had the means and the will to do so.

John didn't know what to say to that so he said nothing.

Mycroft's gaze swept his face for another moment, reading whatever he could from John's expression, before he turned and held a hand out to the nearest assistant. “Mrs Meyer's file, please,” he said in his brisk, businesslike voice, and the agent stepped forward neatly, withdrawing a file from inside his jacket.

Mycroft passed the folder to John. “I'd prefer to introduce you in person, but in will not be in the country. Mrs Meyers will work a twelve hour shift, arriving at eight in the evening and leaving at eight in the morning. I've assigned her the bedroom adjacent to yours and had Louisa's crib moved to her room. In this folder you will find her resume. She has been vetted by the highest authorities to provide care and protection for Louisa.” 

Mycroft held an arm out briskly to the solemn faced agent at his side. His was a man a few years older than John with dark sunglasses, a sharp suit and a solemn face. He looked vaguely familiar to John, and he wondered if he'd ever seen the man in his official capacity and not realized he was one of Mycroft's. “This is Mr Landers. He will head your security team while I am away. He will discuss his procedures with you on the ride home. Meals will continue to be delivered in my absence and anything else you may discuss with Mr Landers.”

John felt a rising panic again over _how much_ Mycroft was doing for him. Mycroft seemed to sense John's reluctance, for he put out a hand to John's shoulder before he could even open his mouth to protest. His thumb brushed against John's neck and John froze, wondering if the touch had been deliberate. It was impossible to tell from Mycroft's composed expression. 

“Please do not argue, John. I will see you in a week,” Mycroft said, squeezed his shoulder slightly, and turned to walk across the graveyard, flanked by the two remaining agents.

Feeling sad, stunned and overwhelmed, John turned to Mr Landers and smiled faintly. “Procedures?” he asked gamely.


End file.
